Impostor
by stress
Summary: Spot Conlon is the most feared and respected newsie in all of New York. You think I would be afraid. I’m not.
1. IL EST UNE FRAUDE

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. The lyrics featured are from the Saliva song, "Always", and are used to tie in to the ficlet._

--

**Impostor_  
_**(_Fradeur_)

--

_I hear a voice say "Don't be so blind…"  
It's telling me all these things  
that you would probably hide_

--

I. **IL EST UNE FRAUDE  
**(_HE IS A FRAUD)_

--

_Spot Conlon._

Those three syllables alone are enough to strike fear into any kid out there living on the street. Being a somewhat quiet and shy person by nature myself, you think I would be afraid.

I'm not.

Spot Conlon is a fraud. A fake. An impostor.

I remember…

I remember the first time I ever met Spot Conlon. I admit, I'd been so nervous, I thought that it might just be a better idea to run back across the Brooklyn Bridge instead of entering _his_ territory. None of the guys had volunteered to invite Spot into our budding alliance—it only followed that the boy must be some sort of monster.

It was such a relief to see that the famed Conlon was actually shorter than I was. Jack, however, was not fooled by his appearance and kept his wits about him; he proceeded with caution when addressing the boy. Even he seemed to fear him. More than once I heard Jack mumble his thanks that the meeting went well; I often wondered why.

Oh, I heard the tales. Though small, Spot had command of the entire borough. If Jack Kelly stood for all things that were Manhattan, then Spot Conlon _was_ Brooklyn. And Brooklyn was known for being tough.

No one really knew why or how but everyone knew this: Spot Conlon was King.

I remember…

I remember when I found out that Spot wasn't what he pretend to be, that he was nothing more than a two-bit fraud who hid behind a name. That he was, simply put, an impostor…

_But first—_

It was a calm summer night and the smells from the streets outside were not as nearly unpleasant as they had been during the heat wave the week before. Jack had followed me home for supper; he had the knack of doing that as often as possible, both to see my sister as well as getting a free meal. Not that my parents minded—too much. They thought Jack's streetwise manners suited Sarah's naivety perfectly. That is, as long as they were there to supervise the pair. Which they always were.

I remember…

I remember that I entered the apartment first and kissed my mother's fair cheek when I met her at the door.

"Evening, Mama," I greeted her and waved to Sarah. She smiled from her place at the stove but I knew that it wasn't meant for me. The grin went over my head and was directed straight at Jack. He hurriedly removed his cowboy hat from his head.

Supper wasn't ready yet that night. Mama shooed me and Jack away from our path; we had been heading straight to the kitchen.

"Your father is still out with Les," she said and gestured for us to wait at the table. "Supper will be ready for their return."

We nodded and left the women to their work. I made to sit down but Jack had other plans. He motioned to the window and climbed out onto the fire escape. It had been quite a while since that first time I followed him out there, back when we first met, that it took me a minute to realize that he wanted me to follow him out there.

I moved up beside Jack as we overlooked the city. My family's apartment may not be much but it had a great view of the streets below.

Jack had already removed a cigarette from inside his vest pocket and was lighting it when my elbow brushed his. He took a long drag from his smoke and breathed it out slowly, letting the pale wisps hang in the air over our heads.

"Nice night, ain't it, Dave?" he murmured, his voice low and heavy. He sounded preoccupied.

I nodded. It was actually a nice night and all but I knew that wasn't what Jack was getting at. What, then, was on his mind?

Jack looked sideways at me and I knew he knew that I knew. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it between two of his fingers. "We got a problem, Dave."

I did know it. I just wished I hadn't.

"What kind of problem, Jack?" I asked, almost resigned.

It had to be a big one if he was coming to me, after all. We were friends, yes, but a man's pride was worth three friends. And Jack Kelly didn't have that much pride to begin with.

"The Brooklyn kind."

Spot Conlon.

He sighed then and I knew that "problem" was understating the situation. "Oh."

Jack turned around and made sure that the window was closed. After the first time that I had followed Jack out on the fire escape for one of his "talks", I learned that it was to be kept between us. Of course I had shut the window behind me.

"Goddammit, Dave," he snapped all of a sudden and I stepped down one stair in surprise. I was not expecting Jack to lose his temper like that. He saw my reaction and lowered his voice considerably. "I just—I didn't know who to turn to about this. Spot… he's threatening to move in on Manhattan. He doesn't want just Brooklyn no more."

I retook my place next to his side but kept my expression straight. "Are you sure, Jack?" He nodded briefly. "Well, then there's nothing to do."

"'Nothing to do', Dave? What do you mean, 'nothing to do'? Open your eyes and don't be so blind! Of course we've gotta do something about this. You've got the brains here, Davey. What should we do?"

He turned his face to meet mine. Jack's brown eyes were lost but narrowed in determination. He intended to do something about Spot's advance, that much was obvious.

But what could we do? This was Spot Conlon, after all. I said as much to Jack: "But what can we do? We can't take on Brooklyn— we can't go up against Spot."

He let out a short laugh that made me feel as if I were no more than three years old. _Silly old, Davey, never knows what he's talking about._

"I ain't afraid of Spot, Dave. He ain't nothing but a phony—a fraud. I don't know why any of the guys think that he's so special but he's not gettin' rid of me, I'll tell ya. He may talk big and all but, without his goons, he's the one with nothing."

Jack paused and shook his head when he noticed that, as he spoke, his cigarette had nearly burnt to the ends. "That kid thinks he can just take anything he wants but I ain't gonna let him. I know a thing or two about Spot and he ain't nothing more than a goddamn impostor."

He was angry—so very angry—and I didn't know what to say for a minute.

"But, Jack, this is Spot Conlon we're talking about, right? No one can go up against him and Brooklyn."

I admit, I was curious and confused about the whole situation. A whole year had passed since the strike last summer and this was the first time any of the fellas had mentioned Brooklyn and the ill-tempered newsie who ruled there. I may sell papers with the rest of them but I knew that I could never really be one of them. Jack was my only true tie to their world; all of the information I received was through him.

"What do you know about Spot that I don't?"

Jack shivered despite the warm summer air. He threw his spent cigarette over the railing and pulled his cowboy hat up to cover his head. I could tell that he was wondering whether or not he should answer—anything he told me would surely get back to Sarah and he didn't want that—but, before he said anything more, Sarah lifted the window open and stuck her pretty face outside.

"Jack? David? Supper's ready."

Looking extremely grateful for the interruption, Jack hurriedly climbed through the window and followed Sarah back into the apartment. I was left alone on the fire escape, my own wonderings left insatiate.

Jack never did tell me how he knew all that about Spot Conlon. In the week or two that followed, he announced to me that Spot had just been joking about turning his gaze onto Manhattan. I tried countless times before and after his pronouncement to bring up the subject of Spot again but he refused to tell me anymore about it. He would wave his hands about and mumble that he didn't want to talk about Spot anymore. He told me to forget all about our nighttime chat and to stay clear of Brooklyn—"to be on the safe side"; after all, we didn't want to tempt fate and give Spot any real ideas. I tried to listen to him, I really did. But curiosity killed the cat—or, better yet, the Cowboy.

Spot Conlon is not just an impostor, as I found out. Spot Conlon is also a murderer.

Spot Conlon killed Jack.

* * *

Author's note_: Wow. I was so surprised over my sense of accomplishment at the close of_ Her Broken Heart _that I decided to begin a second III part story. Like its predecessor, _Impostor _(formerly known as_ Fraudeur) _is an angst-ridden piece but it will not have a happy conclusion. Just thought I'd warn you now. _

_Anywho, I feel like I truly love to torture the Jacobs' family: first Sarah, now David. With this piece I aim to go one step farther than _Her Broken Heart_, but within the same amount of chapters. In this story we discover what would happen if Spot was not who we expected him to be—and David was the one to find this out. _

_Here it is,_ Impostor_, my interpretation in three parts. Again._

_-- stress, revised 05.03.08._


	2. TOUJOURS AU REVOIR

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. The lyrics featured are from the Saliva song, "Always", and are used to tie in to the ficlet._

--

**Impostor_  
_**(_Fradeur_)

--

_I just can't take anymore,  
this life of solitude,  
I guess that I'm out the door  
and now I'm done with you…_

_--_

II. **TOUJOURS AU REVOIR  
**(_ALWAYS GOODBYE_)

--

"David? You have a visitor."

The curly-haired boy lifted his head up from the book he was reading. _A visitor?_ He closed the book and placed it on top of his pillow. Shakespeare could wait.

His sister was standing at the door, holding it open. David walked around her and was surprised to see that it was Jack who stood in the doorway, just outside of the apartment. Sarah smiled once more at the young man before excusing herself and returning to the kitchen with her mother.

David smiled quizzically at Jack. "You want to come in? I think Sarah would like it if you did," he added. Jack looked frustrated and David knew that, normally, just the mention of his sister was enough to bring a smile to his face. But, with his gaze down on the floor of the apartment, Jack had barely even spared her a glance when she answered the door.

_Something's wrong…_

Jack lifted his head and, if anything, looked all the more agitated. He nervously shook his right leg and ran a newsprint stained hand along the lengths of his thin-lipped frown before nodding at the other boy. "Listen, Dave, can I talk to you? Outside, maybe?"

David looked behind him. His mother was, with Sarah's help, washing the dishes from their supper earlier that evening. Les had already gone to bed for the night and Mayer Jacobs was sitting at the table, reading a newspaper that David had neglected to sell that morning. He would hardly be missed.

"Yeah, sure," he answered and slipped out of the apartment, quietly pulling the door closed behind him as he went. He turned his head to look at Jack but the older boy shook his head. Not yet.

It wasn't until the pair of boys had gone down the many flights of stairs and were standing outside of the apartment building that Jack spoke again. He was still as nervous as he was inside but, after taking a few calming breaths, he was able to address David.

"Listen, Dave. Remember when I told you about Spot?"

David nodded quickly. Of course it would have to do with Brooklyn.

"Well, seems that when Spot said that he was just jokin' about coming after Manhattan, he was lyin'. He sent a message this morning that he means business." Jack took another series of deep breaths.

"What kind of message?"

A thin smile came to his tired face. It was not a smile of happiness, or of good fortune. It was a sad smile and David almost wished that he hadn't asked. "Put it this way. Poor Snipes only just woke up from the beatin' that one of Spot's boys gave him. That's the kind of message that he's sendin' to us now."

"Oh."

Jack waved his hand impatiently. He was eager now to get to the reason behind his late night visit to the Jacobs' apartment. "I'm gonna go to Brooklyn tonight, Dave. I'm gonna try to talk some sense into Spot and I was wonderin' if you would mind going down to the Lodging House tomorrow morning before all the guys head off to the distribution center. Let them know what's goin' on. I didn't want to tell them tonight. Too many of them would have wanted to come and I don't think it's a good idea."

Jack Kelly wasn't usually the one to know the difference between a good idea and a poor one. That was David's job. "Jack, I'd like to go with you," he said. "It would be a lot smarter if you didn't head into Brooklyn alone."

A frown twisted the corners of his lips downward. "I don't think you should, Dave. You don't know what Brooklyn can do," he said in argument.

But, even as he spoke his argument, he knew it was weak. His voice faltered at the end and he shrugged his shoulders. In a way, he had been hoping that David would offer to accompany him. He knew that there was no one better to have in his corner during a tight spot than David Jacobs, the Walking Mouth.

David sealed the deal with his next words. "I do know what Brooklyn can do, but I'm coming anyway. I'm not afraid." They were lies, yes, but he was not going to let Jack go alone.

Without even running back into the apartment to tell his mother where he was going, David started to walk away. Jack shoved his slightly shaking hands, a combination of nerves and anger at Spot's actions, into his pockets and followed David.

--

The seven or so mile walk from David's home to the Brooklyn Lodging House took the two boys the better of the night to do. By the time they arrived, it was drawing close to early morning. The sun had yet to rise but there was only about an hour or two left of darkness.

To Jack and David, that meant that there was only an hour or two left before all the Brooklyn boys would be up and getting ready to sell their papers. But that was all right. According to Jack's plan, they were going to wake up the entire lodging house if they had to in order to speak to Spot.

As it turned out, that was not necessary. When the two Manhattan boys approached the front stoop of the Brooklyn home, Spot was already sitting outside. He was busy talking to a boy twice his size but, when he saw his guests, he smiled and stood up.

"Cowboy. I've been waiting for you."

Jack jerked his head in what David assumed was a nod. "Of course."

Spot nodded in return. He gestured to the boy on the stoop. "Go inside, Lucky. I need to have a word with my pal."

The larger boy grunted and left the Brooklyn leader alone. Spot smiled, a sight the fading moonlight made even more perilous.

David stood side by side to Jack; neither moved, though he was sure he heard Jack breathing deeply again before he spoke. "What's the deal, Spot?"

The Brooklyn boy didn't answer. Instead, he jerked his head away from the house. He stepped down from the porch and began to move away from the building. It was a clear indication that he wanted them to follow. Hesitantly, they did.

Spot took them a few yards away from the lodging house before he turned to face them. "What's the deal, Cowboy?" he asked, mocking Jack's earlier question. David turned to look at his partner's face. In the darkness of the street, far enough from the faint candle-lit house that no light reached it, he could see barely anything that was in front of him. Jack's expression remained a mystery. "The deal is that it's time we consolidate."

David looked back to where Spot was. The big word sounded odd coming from him.

_Spot's getting help from somewhere_, he realized and his stomach dropped. He and Jack were in over their heads.

"You kids can still sell you're papes," Spot continued. "You'll just have to split your profits with me. That's the deal."

When Spot paused there was brief moment of silence. David could only think that, during this break, Jack was contemplating the deal. He was actually thinking about agreeing with Spot.

He turned to look at Jack again but he still couldn't make out his face in the dark. The sun was beginning its ascent but it hadn't risen high enough for him to see Jack's expression. He looked back to Spot. The shorter boy was easier to see; he was smirking and believed that he had won.

David couldn't have that. "No."

David could feel the heat from both Spot's and Jack's gazes. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. "No, Spot. No deal. You just stick to Brooklyn," he said, though even he couldn't believe that the words were coming from his mouth. But, then again, it wasn't right. They had fought to keep the paper rates fair. Why should they have to give up their profits after such a hard-won battle? "We have Manhattan covered. Let's just keep things the way they were."

Neither of the boys was expecting David to speak out like that. "Dave—" Jack began but he was cut off when Spot began to laugh. It was a cold laugh and, at that moment, David realized that maybe it wasn't the smartest idea to go with Jack to Brooklyn.

"Sometimes the Walking Mouth should just learn to keep his trap shut," Spot said and he snapped his fingers. "I was hopin', Jacky-boy, that because of our history this woulda turned out better. But, you see, now I gotta set an example."

David's stomach turned. The sun had risen high enough for him to see that, at the snap of his fingers, four boys came out of hiding. They stood behind their leader and their considerable bulk dwarfed him. Jack's face was all the more visible now. He looked even more nervous than he had the night before.

"Example? What do you mean by that?"

Spot nodded to the largest of the boys. David recognized him; he was Lucky, the boy Spot had been conversing with when they arrived. He almost kicked himself. He should have known that Spot wouldn't go to negotiate with them alone. When he told Lucky to go inside that must have been a signal that he needed his boys ready.

Lucky stepped forward and withdrew something from behind his back. At first David assumed it was just a slingshot. But, when he saw the early sunlight glint off of the metal barrel, he knew he was wrong. Lucky was pointing a semi-rusty pistol at him.

David found he could not move his legs. He stared in surprise as Spot nodded a second time. Lucky pulled the trigger and he knew the end was coming.

But it didn't. Not for him.

Just as the stubby finger pressed against the trigger of the gun, Jack slammed into him. David flew to the side and, amidst the loud ringing of the shot, he yelled out. "Jack!"

He wasn't fast enough. And the bullet, meant for David as a check for his remarks, went straight through Jack's chest.

Spot Conlon, by giving the order, had just murdered Jack Kelly.

* * *

Author's note_: Yes I know that this next part took forever to get out. Contrary to belief, it's kinda hard to just sit down and write angst, especially when it pertains to character death. I kept putting it off by working on other stories (as well as a new one about the book Howl's Moving Castle that you should all read, _Roulette—_hint hint). Anywho, I finally just started to listen to some depressing music during last night's rain storm and I began to work on this. I think it came out as well as I wanted it to. So, here you are, the second part. _

_-- stress _


	3. LE FUSIL DANS MA MAIN

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. The lyrics featured are from the Saliva song, "Always", and are used to tie in to the ficlet._

Author's note_: And I finally finished _Fraudeur_, my loverly little foray into David angst. I've been so nasty to Jack lately, killing him off in three fics (including this one). At least, in this one, his death is avenged. I hope you all enjoyed reading this three part vignette, and don't want to beat me too much for killing off another set of characters. But what fun are these guys if we can't kill them, eh? _

_-- stress _

--

**Impostor_  
_**(_Fradeur_)

--

_I see, the blood all over your hands,  
does it make you feel more like a man?  
Was it all just a part of your plan?  
The pistol's shakin' in my hand…_

_--_

III. **LE FUSIL DANS MA MAIN  
**(_THE GUN IN MY HAND)_

_--_

The first two days following Jack's murder were the roughest two days of my life. I hardly remember the journey back or what excuse I gave my mother for staying out all night. All I know is that she didn't believe me at all. She saw the blood that stained my clothes.

At least she didn't question me again. I think she knew that what was happening was beyond her help so she didn't offer it. All she said that first night, after I came back from talking to the boys, was that she loved me. Then she went to comfort my distraught sister. I don't know how she found out that the blood was Jack's but she did.

Maybe I told her the truth after all. Maybe I don't want to remember.

I went to the Lodging House before I even went home. I had to tell them all what had happened.

Interestingly, none of the boys had any problems believing a word I said. Seems more of them knew of Spot's plans than they let onto Jack.

_Maybe if he had known he wouldn't have gone rushing to Brooklyn_, I thought.

No. Jack needed to take care of Spot. Now it's my turn.

All of the boys wanted to run off to Brooklyn the moment I uttered those three words: "Spot killed Jack." I actually had to stand in the doorway to stop them a few of them from running out for revenge. What could a bunch of boys with sticks do against Brooklyn if they had guns?

I tried to talk to them logically. "We need to make a plan," I told them. "We'll get our own weapons, increase our numbers, and get ready. Then we'll go after Spot."

It was Race who finally agreed. Once he nodded and showed his support for my plan, the others soon followed. As hungry as they were for vengeance, their own instinct for self-preservation came first. We would tackle Spot when we had the resources to. Nobody would head off into Brooklyn until then.

I was surprised that, in the end, they listened to me. But that was before I remembered how easy they were to rally during the strike. These boys needed a leader and, now that Jack was gone, they were turning to me. They never saw it coming that I would do exactly what Jack did, heading off on my own.

That is, none of them but Skittery. I had to confide in him because he was the only one I knew who could get me what I needed. And, when he gave it to me, then _I_ would take care of Spot. I had to. Not for the boys, not for me—for Jack. After all, if it wasn't for me, he'd still be alive. Though my actions may not bring him back, it would at least even the deal. Right?

Skittery agreed. Well, after I gave him six whole dollars he agreed.

--

The journey back to Brooklyn seemed a lot shorter than the one I took with Jack. Maybe it was because I didn't stop to chat with every kid I came across like he had. Maybe because, this trip, I wouldn't let myself by afraid. I was going there with a purpose.

The gun that Skittery slipped me this morning tucked away in my waistband, rubbing my back with every step, reminded me of that purpose.

It was just about sundown when I arrived. I went straight to the Lodging House. I knew that's where I would find him and, when I got to the old building, I was right. There, standing around on the porch, was a group of rather large boys. They all had their heads looking somewhat downward, their point of focus somewhere in the middle of the circle they made. They were listening to Spot.

Just when I was about six feet away they all looked up. The largest one—_Lucky_, I remembered with a flash of anger—stared at me and sneered. "What do you want?"

"Spot. I want to see Spot," I heard myself say. If the feelings of guilt and revenge hadn't been so strong at that moment, I think I would have thrown up out of fear. But fear was a second-hand emotion; I couldn't afford to pay any attention to it until I did what I had to do.

Because, quite honestly, I had to do it.

With a cocky ass smirk lighting up his entire face, Spot emerged out from behind a wall of cronies. He waved his hand at them and they all took a seat on the front porch. Spot's manner said it all—even I could read his actions: _I can take care of this kid on my own._

"What is it, Davey? Didn't think you would have the nerve to come back to Brooklyn without Jacky-boy to protect you."

The mention of Jack, while intended to break me, only made me stronger. I _had_ to do it. I thought of the piece of metal that has been poking me in the back all morning. I _had _to do it.

My hand was shaking as I reached for the gun. I moved it slowly behind my back and pulled the pistol out of my waistband. Spot was still smirking at me. He didn't think I had the guts to pull anything on him. I wasn't too sure myself.

I whipped my arm around before I lost my nerve, revealing the gun in my hand. His eyes went alive with surprise and the smirk all but slid off his face. He recovered it nicely, though, when his boys all jumped up.

"You think you're big now, Dave? Got yourself a gun, eh? I'll tell you though," he said, his face twisting into a cruel smile, "it don't mean nothing if you can't use it. And you? You'd never be able to pull that trigger."

My hands were so sweaty that my trigger finger found it hard to grip that crescent-shaped piece of metal. Was Spot right? I almost lowered the gun. _Almost_.

Spot's banter was just a distraction, I realized, almost too late. The impostor pretending to be something more than just a skinny kid with a big mouth and even bigger friends.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Lucky reaching for his gun—the same gun that killed Jack only a week ago. And, for the second time, it was pointing straight at me. There was no one else to protect me. I was on my own this time.

I knew, at that moment, that I would not be leaving Brooklyn alive. But at least I would not die alone or in vain. Cowboy, this is for you.

_I'm sorry, Mama..._

**BANG**


End file.
